


Like Rome, Built From Ashes

by kayelem



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slight Canon Divergence, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-01-10 12:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12299643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayelem/pseuds/kayelem
Summary: Somehow, MacCready knows that he's going to live to regret this..All things considered, Sloane thinks that she's handling the end of the world pretty fucking well, thank you very much.IN THIS CHAPTER: MacCready realizes he and Sloane have more in common than he wants to admit





	1. Day 1 - MacCready

**Author's Note:**

> I have... so many other WIPs, what am I doing.

 

 

 

> **Day 1  
>  MacCready**
> 
>  

_Well, this is getting interesting..._

MacCready sees her there - shoulder against the door frame of the VIP, a bottle of whiskey held loosely between the fingers at her side - but he can't afford to give her more than a furtive, cursory glance. Winlock and Barnes may say that they're only there to deliver a warning, but he's not willing to give them an opening by taking his attention off of them for even a moment.

He rolls his eyes. “You finished?”

Winlock's jaw tenses, eyes narrowing in consideration as though he's actually weighing the consequences of choking the life out of MacCready. “Yeah,” he says, through his teeth. “We're finished.”

“Good. I'm sure you can see yourselves out.”

Barnes grumbles something under his breath that MacCready doesn't catch as the two Gunners reluctantly turn and make their way to the door. Now MacCready turns his attention to the woman in the doorway as Winlock and Barnes approach her, and then when she doesn't scramble out of their way, come to a stop so suddenly he half expects the two Gunners to topple forward.

“The fuck outta the way, lady, before we make you disappear.”

MacCready's on his feet before he even realizes that his ass has left the seat, ready to put himself between them and her as some noble part of himself that he thought had died with Lucy sparks to life with a sudden, frightening intensity. His hand inches toward the 10mm tucked in the back of his belt, wondering how the hell he's going to justify wasting two Gunners in Hancock's bar when he promised the mayor that he wouldn't cause any trouble -  

A low, amused laugh breaks the tension of the room and stills MacCready's hand on the gun's grip. “I'd love to see you try, big boy, but I'm afraid I don't have the time to kick your ass right now.”

MacCready nearly chokes on his surprise. Anyone with half a brain wouldn't dare talk to the two Gunners the way this chick had – which, upon reflection MacCready realizes doesn't exactly speak well of him and his intelligence. But the difference between him and her is that he _knows_ Winlock and Barnes, and he also has the security of knowing that they're not going to start something in Hancock's town no matter how much they may want to do so. This woman obviously can't say the same and is clearly damaged.

 _Nope, not fuckin' today._ He shakes his head and parks his rear end back in the chair, unwilling to risk Hancock's ire for Crazy and that noble part of him crawls back into whatever small, dark hole it had burst out of in the first place.

“What the _fuck_ did you just say?”

She pushes herself away from the door frame and makes to pass them. “I don't think I stuttered. Run along now, boys.”

It's only Winlock's meaty hand on Barnes' equally meaty arm that stops him from lunging after her. “Let's fucking go!”

MacCready studies her as she makes it further into the room with measured, languid steps, the bottle swinging loosely beside her. He clocks the stock of a sniper rifle peeking out over her shoulder, the 10mm at her hip and the knife strapped to her thigh. Using Winlock as a marker as she passes him, MacCready estimates that she's the same height as him, which is tall for a woman by wasteland standards –

– Lucy barges to the forefront of his mind suddenly, as her memory is wont to do at sometimes inopportune moments. How small she had been, how he had been afraid that she would tip over when her stomach had grown almost comically large with Duncan. Thin, delicate fingers carding through his hair, gripping his shoulders. . .

_Enough!_

MacCready blinks hard, forces his attention back on the woman in the VIP with him. The only part of her face that he can see is the amber of her eyes and the long, dark lashes that frame them; her nose and mouth are hidden from view by a bandana, but he can still see the dusting of freckles that peek from over the top it.

Her clothes fit too well for her to be just a settler and she looks healthy in a way that wastelanders just _aren't._ Not to mention that she just doesn't have that wide-eyed, twitchy vigilance that most wastelanders have down pat. No, she looks downright _bored_ with everything around her. He teases with the idea that she might be a Vaultie which would easily explain her particular brand of crazy bravado, but when his eyes drift down to her wrists – _no Pip-Boy._

 _Merc_ , _then,_ he decides. She's too well-armed, too well-fed and not nearly jumpy enough to be anything but. _So what the fuck is she doin' here?_

Finally, when she doesn't speak first, MacCready sighs. “Look lady, if you're preachin' about the Atom or lookin' for a friend you got the wrong guy. If you're lookin' for a hired gun on the other hand, then maybe we can talk.”

One dark eyebrow arches up as she openly appraises him from head to toe making him wish he was standing so he at least didn't have to look up at her. “I take it those two guys aren't your biggest fans?”

“You could say that. They're with the Gunners. I ran with them for a little while 'cause the caps were good, but it wasn't for me. Made a clean break and been solo ever since,” he replies.

“I somehow doubt a 'clean break' warrants them tracking you down and warning you to stay out of their territory,” she counters, and MacCready's not entirely certain, but he's pretty sure she's smirking under that bandana.

“... They may have taken exception to the supplies I took when I left.” _Why the fuck are you telling her this?_

A startled laugh slips out from behind the bandana, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a delighted way that makes MacCready's stomach do an odd little flip. “Ah, that makes sense. A deserter _and_ a thief.”

He fucking hates it, but MacCready feels something sickeningly close to shame twist in his gut and abruptly burn his cheeks. What the fuck gives her the right to judge him. She doesn't know the first goddamn thing about him, and clearly must not know how the Gunners operate if she's going to give him shit for stealing from them. As if everyone hadn't had to do something they weren't proud of to survive the wasteland and all the horrors that came with it.

“Well, what about you?” he challenges, pushing himself to his feet in his agitation. “How do I know I won't end up with a bullet in the back?”

Her free hand comes up, placating, but there's still amusement lighting her eyes when she speaks. “Easy, I'm not judging – we do what we must to survive, right?” The whiskey comes up again, the mouth of the bottle disappearing behind the cloth as she takes a long pull, and sucking on her teeth as she brings it back down. “As for ending up with a bullet in your back: if you're gonna catch a bullet from me you're gonna see it coming and you're damn well gonna know _why_.”

It's alarming, how quickly his anger cools, but he can't help but blink at her and her candor. “That's... comforting?” MacCready makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan, lifting his hat to run a hand over his hair realizing suddenly how _tired_ he is and how much he just wants her to _leave_ because he's starting to get a damn headache. “Tell you what, price is two-hundred and fifty caps. Up front. No room for bargaining.”

She's silent for a moment as she rolls his offer around in her head, and MacCready can practically _hear_ the gears of her mind working. He forces his expression to remain neutral out of fear of giving away his bluff. Two-fifty is a hundred caps more than he accepted from the last schmuck that came crawling his way, but considering the amount of crazy he's _already_ seen from her, he upped his price _hoping_ that it would be too rich for her blood. He really doesn't need this mess of a chick in his life.

“Two-hundred,” she offers confidently.

He shakes his head. “No way. I said two-fifty, I meant two-fifty.”

“You didn't let me finish,” she says, and there's something in her tone that MacCready instantly doesn't like. It's all warm, slick sweetness and he's willing to bet the smile behind that damn bandana would make him weak in the knees and offer her anything she fucking wanted. “I need someone long term, who knows what the hell they're doing. So, two-hundred, plus equal share of loot, better gear _and_ I can give you somewhere to stay when I don't need you. If you decide after a couple days that what I'm doing isn't for you, I'll _give_ you the extra fifty caps and we can part ways.”

 _Fuckin' Christ._ _Who the hell **is** this chick?_

Insane or not, this is the best deal MacCready's ever going to get and he fucking knows it. It's probably more caps than he'd ever seen with the Gunners, which means more caps to send back home to Duncan. And he wants to be angry with her for apparently needing him badly enough to _haggle_ , but there's no igniting spark to the irritation he feels, just an uncomfortable weight sitting in his stomach. Mostly he's aggravated with himself that he needs the caps badly enough that he already knows he's going to agree to her terms.

“You know what, you don't have to give me an answer right now,” she says with a sigh, leaning past him to set the whiskey on the table beside the chair he had been occupying as if she knows he's going to need it. “I'll be at the Rexford 'til tomorrow afternoon. Just think about it okay? And, you can call me Sloane by the way.”

Sloane turns to walk away, and MacCready slumps, boneless, back into the chair. “Sure thing, boss,” he grumbles, too low for her to hear as he reaches for the bottle that she's left with him. He turns the bottle in his hands until he can read the label, biting back a groan as it registers that it's top shelf, easily worth twice his fee. Charlie must have blown a gasket when she ordered it _and_ had enough caps to pay for it.

 _Somehow, I'm gonna live to regret this,_ he thinks, tipping the bottle back.

 

 


	2. Day 2 - Sloane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shrug emoji]

 

 

> **Day 2  
>  Sloane**
> 
>  

All things considered, Sloane thinks that she's handling the end of the world pretty fucking well, thank you very much.

Then again, there's a line in one of her many psych assessments (a million miles and 210 years ago when those kinds of things mattered before you were handed a gun and a General's rank, and told to go kill a whole lot of people) about her impressive ability to compartmentalize. Of course she realizes that at the time it wasn't exactly a complementary evaluation in regards to her emotional well-being on the whole, but one that her superiors were happy enough with to put in the field several times over. Because no one wants their operatives suddenly developing such cumbersome things as a conscience while they're on mission.

But everyone has their limits and watching someone murder her husband and kidnap her son, only to crawl out of the Vault into a wrecked world had tipped Sloane, ass over tea kettle, beyond hers. She'd sat in Sanctuary Hills for a few weeks nearly catatonic while Codsworth puttered around her, tittering and worrying when the cryo-sickness finally hit, taking care of her as though it hadn't been over two-hundred years since he had last seen her. Of all the things to survive the nuclear fucking apocalypse, _of course_ her nanny bot did.

Sloane likes to think that no one would fault her for those weeks spent doing little more than breathing as she tried to adjust to this new reality, at least not if they really _knew._

Piper manages to figure out that she's fresh out of a Vault from the get go, though Sloane isn't sure how considering that she'd ditched the blue jumpsuit when she finally made the decision to hunt down the motherfucker that had killed Nate and took Shaun. And just like the jumpsuit, the Pip-Boy is a too conspicuous clue, so that's stored in the depths of her pack to be taken out only when she needs it. When she asks how Piper figured it out, the reporter laughs and tells Sloane that her smile is too pretty, with too many teeth in her head and then warns her to be careful because too many people would happily take advantage of a Vaultie.

With that pleasant thought in mind, Sloane denies Piper's request for an interview. “At least for now,” she says. “I don't need the people who took my son knowing I'm out of the Vault and looking for them.”

Of course what she doesn't say is that she doesn't need everyone and their mother knowing that she's a goddamn antique. What Piper doesn't know won't hurt her, and more importantly won't come back to bite Sloane in the ass. Preston knows, but Preston is... Preston, and even he only has parts of the truth.

Still, the reporter agrees to help, though Sloane is pretty certain that her motives aren't entirely altruistic and have more to do with the fact that Piper smells a good story that she can only get the whole of by tagging along. That suits Sloane just fine, if she's honest, to have someone watching her back other than Dogmeat because even though he had offered, she hadn't felt right tearing Preston away from Sanctuary Hills just yet. But turns out, the one person in the Commonwealth that may be able to actually help her find Shaun went missing on his latest investigation because this is Sloane's life now and _of fucking course_ he did.

“If Skinny Malone and his Triggermen have Nick, then Goodneighbor is where we're gonna get the best information,” Piper tells her.

Which is how Sloane ends up here, in a squalid little hotel room that Mayor Hancock's paying for, dividing her attention between the map on her Pip-Boy and the window overlooking the Third Rail's entrance. She maps a path to the location Hancock wants her to check out, looks out the window, looks back down to chart a path to where Nick Valentine is being held (distinctly trying not to think about the fact that it's a damn Vault), checks out the window again. She goes through unpacking and re-packing, counting out the amount of ammo, stimpacks, water... all while keeping her head on a swivel for MacCready to show his goddamn face.

“C'mon, MacCready, don't make me have to go back to Hancock,” Sloane mutters to herself.

Hancock's the one who suggested the merc to Sloane in the first place, saying that if she's planning on going after Nick she's going to need more of an edge than what Piper and her 10mm can offer. Though Sloane gets the impression that pushing MacCready off onto her is more for the mayor's benefit than hers, but she's not going to complain. So Sloane had sent Piper back to Diamond City with Dogmeat to wait for her return while she wrangled herself up a gun for hire.

“Merc's name is MacCready, he's currently wearin' on my hospitality at the Third Rail,” Hancock had said yesterday. “Last I heard he's been chargin' 'bout a hundred an' fifty caps, but he's worth it. He gives you any issue, sister, you come on back to me an' I'll set him straight.”

Sloane really doesn't want to consider what setting MacCready straight is going to mean for him if she _does_ have to go back to Hancock. And she especially doesn't want to have to tell the mayor that MacCready tried to charge her a hundred more caps than his usual. (And Sloane would _love_ a conversation with whatever fucking genius came up with _that_ post-nuclear financial system). She can't imagine that bit of information going over well, as she remembers what Hancock did to Finn after he tried to extort protection money from her not fifty feet into the town.

It’s not until almost noon that Sloane sees MacCready come staggering out into the afternoon sunlight. She spares a thought to wonder how much of that whiskey he might have drank before she’s on her feet and slinging her pack over her shoulder and is out the door, down the stairs and out the front door of the Rexford.

“Perfect timing, MacCready, I’m just on my way out!” she calls out as she approaches. A lie, considering that she would have waited all day if she had to, but one that maybe will look like providence to him that he’s left The Third Rail just as she’s heading out and _just so happens_ to cross paths with him. Sloane doesn’t stop as she passes him, but throws “You coming, or what?” over her shoulder.

And she doesn’t slow her steps at MacCready’s hesitation, doesn’t even regard him even as she rounds the corner and the message is clear: it’s now or never. It takes another few strides before she hears him jogging to catch up to her. _Gotcha,_ she thinks, her smirk hidden beneath the bandana.

“Yeah alright, I’m coming,” he says, not that he sounds too thrilled about the idea. “I gotta get my pack from Daisy’s before we head out though.”

Watching his interaction with Daisy is odd she thinks given her, admittedly limited, knowledge of MacCready so far. Not that Daisy makes it difficult to like her, considering that she was the first one after Hancock to check on Sloane after that fiasco with Finn the day she arrived. But he’s… kind, warm even and drops a kiss on the ghoul’s scarred cheek before he shrugs his pack on and heads toward where Sloane is waiting by the entrance to the town. 

“You keep an eye on him, girlie, he’s one of the good ones!” Daisy calls out behind MacCready.

Sloane answers with a wave and smile Daisy can’t see. “I’ll do my best, Daisy!” To MacCready she says, “Someone’s sweet on you.”

MacCready rolls his eyes, though Sloane is delighted to see the tips of his ears turn pink. “We leaving or are we gonna stand here gossiping?”

“In a minute,” Sloane says, and turns to dig into a side pocket of her pack, coming out with a small purple bag clinking with caps. “Deals a deal. Two hundred caps up front,” she says and tosses him the bag. And there’s something like surprise in his eyes as he catches it before he schools his expression back into something neutral. “Count it if you want, I won’t be offended.”

MacCready shakes his head, moves to stow the bag of caps in his own pack. “No, I trust you.”

They both know he doesn’t.


	3. Day 2 - MacCready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Two updates within a couple days of each other? What sorcery is this??

 

 

 

 

 

> **Day 2**  
>  **MacCready**
> 
>  

“So, what exactly are we doing, Boss?” MacCready asks.

It’s only been a handful of hours since he and Sloane left Goodneighbor, and MacCready’s not sure what he had been expecting, but stopping already wasn’t really at the top of the list. He hadn’t asked as they walked since it’s usually best not to talk considering how well sound carries through the ruins, and out in the open you always have to be on your guard. But now that they’ve stopped and are behind the relative safety that crumbling walls and ceilings can provide, he can’t help the question slipping out.

Sloane doesn’t turn from her position by the busted window, her attention completely focused on… whatever she’s been staring at for the last twenty minutes. “Have you heard of The Pickman Gallery?” she asks in reply.

MacCready shakes his head. “Nah, why?”

“Hancock asked me to check it out as payment for some information he gave me. He said he’s been _hearing_ _things_ about it, which is really fucking ominous,” Sloane tells him, then motions to the building she’s watching. “It’s across the way.”

MacCready pushes himself to his feet, comes to mirror Sloane’s stance on the other side of the window. He tilts his head enough to look out without being in the window’s opening. The gallery is a three-floored brick building, and is completely unremarkable with the exception of what looks like a freshly painted red door that stands out almost uncomfortably bright in the bleakness of the ruins and the overcast of the day. Outside he spots a couple raiders on guard duty, but their twitchy behavior tells MacCready that the area isn’t their usual territory.

“Do they look anxious to you?”

“Stupid as they can be, there ain’t a lot that makes raiders nervous,” MacCready says.

He decides he already doesn’t like whatever is inside the gallery if it’s enough to make the raiders nervous. _Please don’t be fucking_ _s_ _upermutants_ , he thinks, especially because MacCready doesn’t know Sloane well enough yet to know if she’d try to save him if a mutie tried to eat him or save her own ass. He knows what _he’d_ choose. And MacCready _wants_ to feel bad about how absolutely certain he is that he would leave Sloane to the mercy of muties if it meant saving himself (especially after Lucy), but he thinks of Duncan and the guilt hardens into _resolve_. Fortunately, considering the noticeable lack of meatbags, supermutants seem unlikely; not to mention they’d be able to smell them even from across the street.

Beside him Sloane lets out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that they seem to suffer from a fatal case of overconfidence.” Her wording and the way she says it gives MacCready a moment’s pause, as though wherever she’s from (because MacCready’s at least decided that she’s _not_ from the Commonwealth) raiders aren’t really a problem. “We’ll move after dusk,” she says, “take out the two in front from here then head in.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agrees.

Sloane keeps her vigil at the window, humming to herself in between telling him when a new raider comes out to give the two keeping guard an update on whatever it is they’re doing inside. In total, it makes five raiders that they know about so far. She makes an observation that they must be looking for something inside the gallery, and given the raiders’ growing agitation after every update MacCready is inclined to agree.

As sun begins to set, Sloane has MacCready take up his rifle at the next window beside hers with one of the raiders standing guard in his cross-hairs. She counts them down from three… two… one – MacCready squeezes the trigger, his raider crumples with barely a sound. And when he swivels his sight to Sloane’s target (call it professional curiosity) he sees the body slumped against the wall with a wide rivulet of blood running down the face from the hole where an eye used to be.

_Not bad._ _Maybe she won’t get my ass killed_ _after all_ _._

“Not bad, Mac,” Sloane says, her tone approving, almost teasing.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replies, cocky, but still feels his ears warm at the compliment. “You hired the best!”

It earns him an honest laugh as she shoulders her rifle. “C’mon, let’s go see what’s so interesting about this place.”

 

.

 

The _smell_ as soon as they walk in the door hits MacCready like a fucking punch in the stomach. The surprised inhale he takes is entirely reflexive, but the it lodges in the back of his throat and he can _taste_ it – like he’s just taken a bite of raw meat gone bad. It’s enough to make his eyes water – the sour stench of, not necessarily decay, but old blood and when they turn the corner into the first room, he sees why. MacCready doesn’t know _why_ he’s shocked because he’s seen some pretty fucked up shit, _and yet_ , the wasteland continues to provide glimpses into the deepest corners of human depravity.

“Oh, Jesus _fuck!_ ” Sloane groans, her tone thoroughly disgusted but she keeps her voice quiet. “Here,” she says a moment later. He manages to tear his eyes away, back to Sloane, presenting him with a small tin full of some kind of ointment. “Rub it under your nose, it’ll help… at least a little.”

He doesn’t question it and accepts the tin gratefully, slathering a generous amount of… whatever it is above his upper lip. And it does help, almost immediately, though it weirdly cools the inside of his nostrils and he can feel it in his lungs with every inhale.

“Thanks for the fu-reakin’ nightmare fuel, Boss,” MacCready says when he can breathe without it catching.

“No kidding,” she says, inspecting one of the mutilated bodies in the center of the room, posed like its on display. She tilts her head, eyebrows knitting together as she crouches to look one of the corpses in the face. “Hey Mac, is it just me, or does that... portrait over there look like this guy?”

It does. The portrait is almost scarily accurate right down to the ragged scar that gnarls the bridge of his nose.

Sloane breathes out a long sigh as she pushes herself to stand and moves toward the nearest painting. She uses her knife to scrape the surface of the canvas until there's a small pile in the palm of her other hand. She rubs the flakes of paint between her fingers, touches the tip of her finger to her tongue and spits a moment later.

“I really don’t wanna know...” he says as she turns and he sees the dawning horror in her eyes.

But _of course_ she tells him, probably so they can be horrified together. “These bodies were drained, and _this-_ ” she holds up her still red-stained fingers for emphasis “- isn’t paint.”

_Fan-fuckin’-tastic._ “I guess now we know why the raiders were so twitchy.”

“And what they’re looking for – the artist.”

In the heavy silence of their new understanding of what’s going on in the Pickman Gallery, a noise from the floor above startles both of them so severely that Sloane's hip bumps into the table beside her. It's almost in slow motion that the vase on top wobbles and then tumbles over the edge of the table. The resounding shatter of the vase’s impact is almost deafening in the quiet.

“The fuck was that?” Comes from somewhere above their heads followed by footsteps heading toward the stairs.

MacCready can’t help the curse that slips out as he and Sloane both duck behind the center display. He tries to ignore how it puts him eye level with the cloudy, dead eyes of one of the bodies. Beside him, Sloane draws her 10mm and screws a silencer to the muzzle

“God, this place gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” a raider says as two of them stomp down the stairs.

“Just shut up and figure out what that fucking noise was,” the other, a female, replies as they hit the landing.

MacCready doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like it at all. There's a  _reason_ he's a fucking sniper - to avoid situations like this! But he can’t draw his rifle and effectively use it in this space, he doesn't have a silencer for his handgun and any gunfire will only draw the attention of whoever is still upstairs. And MacCready is definitely not built for close quarters fights.  

Through the myriad of  curses playing through his head, Sloane turns and looks at him. "Stay here," she whispers.

She waits until one raider has gone down the hall to check the back of the house and the other, the female, has their back turned to them before she moves from her spot beside him. There's an opening in the arrangement of the display that allows him to watch her as she moves, low to the ground, but quick and sure of her footing as though she’s done this a hundred times before.

When she’s near enough to the raider, Sloane pops up to her full height, reaches around the woman’s face and covers her mouth, holding her struggling body tightly against her own. She aims her silenced 10mm down the hall, squeezes off two shots and MacCready distantly hears the weighted thump of a body hitting the floorboards before she presses the muzzle to the raider woman’s temple and fires again. The woman goes absolutely limp in Sloane’s hold and she lets the body drop where it folds, motionless, at her feet.

Sloane positions herself at the bottom of the stairs, but out of sight of the upstairs landing just as another set of footsteps creaks across the floorboards. She aims for the top of the stairs. _That’s right,_ he thinks distantly, _She said three raiders were updating the two on watch outside._

“What the hell are you two idiots -”

Sloane squeezes off another two shots before the raider at the top of the stairs can finish or presumably get too close and spot her. She doesn’t lower the gun right away, just keeps her attention focused on the upstairs landing and MacCready strains his ears for any other sound of movement. When there’s no other indication that there’s another raider upstairs, they both breathe a relieved sigh.

Surprise is really too mild of a term and not wholly accurate for the feeling that courses through MacCready as he stands. He watches Sloane unscrew the silencer from the muzzle of her gun before she holsters it. He steps over the female raider's body into the foyer almost mechanically, turns to look at the body down the hall, then to the one at the top of the stairs.

He thinks of the body slumped against the wall outside.

_She didn’t waste a single fucking bullet._

If Sloane could do _this_ on her own, so calmly, so effectively… why the fuck does she need him?

 

.

 

Pickman makes MacCready’s fucking skin crawl. And it's not really _entirely_ about the galllery. It's  _him._ From the three piece suit with bloodstained sleeves, to his unsettling calm and the almost serene smile on his face. MacCready's hands unconsciously tighten on his rifle as he listens to Sloane’s conversation with Pickman, listens to the breeze in his tone as he  _flirts_ with her. And he’s just waiting, _waiting_ , for Sloane to put a fucking bullet through his skull. He thinks she’s _definitely_ going to do it when he hands her a key, then kisses the back of her hand with a ballsy wink.

But she surprises him again when Sloane _lets Pickman go._

“Uhm, hey Boss… any particular fu-frickin’ reason he’s still breathing?” MacCready says when Pickman’s gone and they’re left standing amid the bodies of the raiders that had come looking for the ‘artist’.

Sloane doesn’t answer him for a long minute, but she looks pale as she stares at the hand Pickman had kissed. And MacCready’s not usually one to question the person paying him to do little more than follow where they lead and shoot who they tell him to, but he saw how disgusted Sloane had been with the ‘work’ Pickman was so proud of – so why hadn’t she killed him?

Finally, Sloane opens her hand, dropping the key Pickman had given her beside one of the raiders. “He’s a sick fuck, but he’s a sick fuck that kills raiders,” Sloane tells him. “Until that changes, he can finger-paint with their blood all he wants.” She looks around at the bodies and breathes a sigh, “Let’s get out of here.”

MacCready’s moral compass may not point entirely north, and the idea of letting that slimy motherfucker live may turn his stomach... but Sloane’s caps are the ones in his pack. So she leads and he follows. 


	4. Day 5 - Sloane/MacCready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything sucks right now and idk how I feel about this chapter, but here, have... whatever this is.

 

 

> **Day 5  
>  ** **Sloane**
> 
>  

There was a time when Sloane probably could have navigated her way from one end of Boston to the other blindfolded. It was the city where she’d been born, raised, and worked in when ops didn’t require her to be elsewhere. She knew all the back alleys, the shortcuts, the less than reputable areas, and all the high class joints. She knew where to get the best burger at 3am after the bars closed and you needed something to soak up all the liquor before you stumbled home, or where to find someone to stitch you up because you screwed up and got yourself shot and couldn’t risk the questions at the ER.

But now?

Now Sloane has no idea where the fuck she’s going 80% of the time, and it makes her want to reconsider wearing the Pip-Boy in her pack if only for the map. She settles for pulling it out during her watch instead, tries to chart their way through the detritus. If MacCready notices that they’ve been… _wandering_ for the last two days, he wisely doesn’t mention it and she disguises the fact under the guise of scavving – the few extra caps she finds and tosses his way seem to mollify him. It’s just harder than she thought it was going to be, trying to reconcile the city she had known with the one that exists in the aftermath of The Great War because the things she recognizes are few and far between. It causes an ache that she can barely catch her breath around.

… _The Great War_.

The term makes Sloane want to laugh when she thinks about it, but she’s afraid that if she does that she won’t stop and she’ll lose the already tenuous grasp she has on her sanity. It makes it sound like it lasted so much longer than the few hours it would have taken to completely irradiate the planet (while she and the entire population of Vault 111 slept). Because _war_ implies _sides_ , battles fought and a declared winner. But that’s _not_ what happened, and Sloane wonders if anyone besides her and the few pre-war ghouls really understand that.

Somehow she doubts it.

They’re a few blocks from Park Street Station and the vault where Nick Valentine is being held when Sloane decides that she’d rather deal with it _tomorrow_ partly because she’s tired and partly because she wants some time to case the place. She and MacCready set up camp in a building near enough to the entrance of the station that she can keep an eye on how many come and go. MacCready manages to find a lantern with enough oil to give them just enough light to see by and they share a meal as the sun sets.

“Make sure you’re ready to head out first thing in the morning,” Sloane tells MacCready after dinner as she sets up for her watch. “I don’t want this to take any longer than it has to.” 

Translation: Sloane doesn't want to be in the vault any longer than she has to be.

“And uh… what is _this_ , exactly?” he replies.

Sloane sighs, swallows back her knee-jerk retort. She doesn’t like the tone he’s taken, but considering they’ve been as good as lost for the last two days, she understands. “You’ve heard of Nick Valentine?”

“That detective from Diamond City? Yeah, I think he came through Goodneighbor a few weeks ago.”

“He probably did, he was on a case. Just so happens that I’m in need of his services, but before _that_ , I get to play Knight In Shining Armor cuz he apparently went and got himself kidnapped,” she says. “He’s being held in a vault, but to get there we gotta go through Park Street Station.”

Even in the dim light Sloane sees MacCready go still suddenly, like a deer in headlights. “… Station?” he echoes, slowly, “like a metro station?” At her acknowledging nod, he says, “You know those tend to be full of fu-reakin’ ferals?”

“Well, fortunately for us, this one should be full of Triggermen instead.”

He lets out a noise that’s some weird combination of a laugh and a scoff, like he can’t believe what she’s just told him. “So we’re just going to piss off the biggest gang in Goodneighbor? I doubt Hancock’s going to be happy about that, considering they tend to answer to him.”

“Things change I guess, cuz Hancock’s the one who told me where their base is. I guess they’ve been getting a little too cocksure since taking over the vault and pissing Hancock off; but aside from a few scuffles with the neighborhood watch he hasn’t had a good enough reason to cut ties until now.” Sloane shrugs. “Valentine’s the mayor’s friend, he didn’t even know the Triggermen had taken him. He just thought he closed his case and went back to Diamond City. Hancock was _not happy_ when I told him Valentine’s actually been missing for a couple weeks - gave me free reign to do whatever I had to do to get Valentine out safe.”

Somehow, MacCready looks more troubled than before. If Sloane didn’t know any better she would say that he looks… _anxious_ , which up until this moment is not a word she would use to describe him. Cocky? Sure. Smartass? Definitely. Cautious? Absolutely. But _anxious?_

She chalks it up to the fact that it’ll be their first real test as a team in a firefight and against a group far more organized than a handful of raiders. “Get some sleep, Mac,” she tells him. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

MacCready shakes his head. A hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. “Uh, you know what? I’ll take first watch.”

Sloane arches an eyebrow at him and the offer. Since leaving Goodneighbor MacCready hasn’t offered anything more than what she’s asked of him, and she _hasn’t_ asked him to take the first watch yet. It had struck her as odd at first because Sloane _knows_ he trusts her about as far as he can throw her (and probably not even that much) so she’s been expecting him to want the first watch from the start. And MacCready _has_ slept on her watch, of that Sloane’s certain because she knows fake sleep from real sleep, but he always seems genuinely surprised when she wakes him for his turn. Almost like he had half-expected not to wake up at all or to wake up and discover that she’s robbed him blind.

If MacCready expects her to question him, to ask him if he’s sure, she doesn’t. “Okay,” Sloane replies instead, readjusts her pack to lean her head against it, curls up under her jacket for a little more warmth.

As she begins to drift off into sleep, Sloane wonders if MacCready will still be there when she wakes. He wasn’t thrilled with her decision to let Pickman live even if he hadn’t outright voiced it, and he doesn’t seem enthused now with the prospect of going into the metro station tomorrow…

 _How badly does he really need the caps?_ Sloane asks herself as she turns her back to MacCready and the lantern light.

 

 

 

> **MacCready**
> 
>  

Sloane sleeps just outside the lantern’s dim reach, curled against her pack, and MacCready watches the slow shift of her shoulders as she breathes. He asks himself: _How fuckin’ bad do I really need the damn caps?_

Badly enough to walk into a metro station (that will _hopefully_ be full of Triggermen and _not_ ferals) for the first time since Lucy’s death with a woman he’s known for less than a week? Badly enough to risk alienating the biggest fucking gang in Goodneighbor and _hoping_ they won’t retaliate?

He groans, grinds the palm of his hand into his forehead. _I should have stayed in fuckin’ Goodneighbor_.

What fucking sob story did Sloane tell Hancock that could have possibly led to him selling out a gang that, as far as MacCready’s aware, was paying him a pretty big cut to operate in his town?

 _You can still get the hell out, RJ_ , he reminds himself. Sloane made him a deal, after all. If he doesn’t like what she’s doing he can split, take another fifty caps from her and never have to see her face again…

Because the truth is, MacCready isn’t entirely certain he’ll be able to walk into that metro station and _not_ hear Lucy’s screams echoing off the walls. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to wrestle that memory into submission long enough to be any use. Will he even be able to _breathe_ down there? He's been so damn concerned that Sloane's going to be the one to get him killed, he never stopped to consider it may be the other way around... 

Sloane makes a discontented sound that shatters through MacCready’s thoughts. It’s not the first time – he’s noticed that she sleeps fitfully, shifts restlessly and mumbles her half of dream conversations under her breath. He’s not surprised; he doubts _anyone_ really sleeps peacefully in the wastes.

But tonight, whatever she’s dreaming about is making Sloane more restless than the last few nights before this. She flips back toward him and the lantern, and MacCready can see the crease of her forehead, the pucker between her eyebrows. Her head tosses from one side to the other, her hands twitch, curl and uncurl on themselves.

It starts quietly enough, a string of mumbled words blurred together incoherently until they become clear - ‘no’, ‘stop’, ‘don’t’ repeated over and over, louder each time as Sloane tosses her body the other direction again. And this isn’t good. MacCready can hear the echo of her voice and movements in the empty darkness around them. He’s going to have to wake her, he realizes, before she gets loud enough to draw something or someone to their location.

MacCready rises to his feet, steps over the lantern to where Sloane is dreaming. “Boss, hey c’mon, it’s just a dream, you gotta wake up,” he says, loud enough to be heard over her pleading with her nightmare and rests his hand on her shoulder.

“… No! … Nate! Goddamnit, you motherfucker!” She’s crying. 

He gives her shoulder a firm shake. “Boss! You’re gonna lead someone right to us!”

Sloane’s eyes fly open and then she moves so quickly there's little MacCready can do to stop her. A starburst of pain explodes at the back of his head and MacCready’s on his back, Sloane’s got her full weight behind the knee is in his chest and he feels the cool edge of her combat knife against his throat. She’s breathing hard above him and the lantern light catches on the tears clinging to her eyelashes. Somehow in the scuffle, MacCready managed to draw his 10mm and he’s got it pressed in the space between two of her ribs.

Sloane’s eyes are wild, unfocused - the nightmare still has it’s claws in her mind. Time seems to slow to a crawl. He _knows_ that look, that hurricane of panic. MacCready takes his finger off the trigger, brings his hands up in surrender on either side of his head; hopes he won’t get his throat slit for it. He can barely catch his breath with her weight on his sternum.

“Hey, c’mon, it’s just me,” MacCready tells her and tries to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Boss?” he says again. She snarls; he hisses when the blade bites into his skin. _Don’t make me shoot you,_ he thinks. “… _Sloane._ It’s just me.”

The sound of her name seems to bring her back to herself. She blinks, her eyes focus on his face and MacCready lets out a relieved sigh.

“Shit! Oh, _shit!_ ” Sloane gasps. She drops the knife like it’s burned her and scrambles off of him.

Crouched a few feet away, Sloane turns her back to him, clutches her head between her shaking hands. He can hear her counting through breathing exercises. MacCready doesn’t say anything as he shifts to sit up, gives her however much time she needs to compose herself. Luckily his fingers don’t come away bloody when he touches his neck and the back of his head, though the latter will probably leave behind a decent lump.

Finally, Sloane turns toward him. She hasn’t quite managed to chase the haunted look from her bloodshot eyes. “Mac, I am _so sorry_. Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “Nah,” he lies, though he doesn’t know why. “Scared me for a second there though. And if that’s gonna be a regular thing I’m gonna have to ask for hazard pay.”

The joke earns him a laughed choked by a few fresh tears that Sloane hastily wipes away. She motions to his gun still held in his hand. “Why didn’t you shoot me?” she asks.

MacCready looks down at the 10mm before he tucks it back into the waist of his pants. “You can’t pay me if you’re dead,” he replies casually. Because it’s easier than telling her that he recognized the look in her eyes because he’s seen it in his own. 

“Fair enough,” Sloane mumbles around another breathed laugh. “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to fall back asleep so I’ll go ahead and take watch.”

“Whatever you say, Boss,” he answers with a shrug, and goes back to his pack. He doesn’t say that he probably won’t sleep at all after what just happened, but he doesn’t want her to feel any worse than she already does. “Can I ask you something though?”

“Mac, I almost killed you, you can ask me for any fucking thing you want right now.”

“Tempting, I’ll have to think about it," he tells her, then says: "You called out a name: Nate. Who’s that?”

Sloane goes so still MacCready thinks for a second that she’s turned to stone. She doesn’t seem to realize that she called out anything out loud or coherently enough for him to ask about it. Just when he thinks that she’s not going to answer at all, Sloane breathes out, “Nate… was my husband.”

MacCready’s head snaps up so fast his neck cricks. “Was?” he echoes.

“ _Was._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's wondering about the timeline of this story: Sloane has been out of the vault for a couple months before she meets MacCready. That means she's had the time to help a few settlements, help the Minutemen start their comeback and finish a few side quests before getting to Goodneighbor.


End file.
